The breakdown happened on a Tuesday.
It wasn't dramatic. Wasn't cinematic. There was no triggering moment, no phone call, no Caleb sighting, no text that detonated the last wall standing.
It was just a Tuesday.
10 AM. English seminar. Professor Chen's class. A presentation I'd prepared for all weekend – Virginia Woolf, the way trauma restructures language. I knew the material. Had note cards. Had practiced in front of Sienna twice and the bathroom mirror once. Had my slides loaded and my thesis memorized and my hands steady.
I stood up. Walked to the front. Twenty faces. Familiar. Safe. Professor Chen nodding from her desk with the encouraging expression she gave everyone before presentations – the you've got this face.
I opened my mouth.
"Virginia Woolf's approach to–"
And the worl
